56 The Reluctant Catholics

Late 1961: My early years at a Catholic school in Bolton, Lancashire ended abruptly when Dad’s works (Bowaters) relocated the family to Crundale Road, Twydall. Though life down south was difficult to begin with, I eventually settled.

By 1965 I was just another happy kid at Twydall Juniors. My Catholic background had been left in the past.

Early 1966: Dad dropped a bomb on my comfortable existence when he ordered me and my brothers – Dave and Mike – to report to the Catholic Church on Beechings Way, on Saturday mornings, for classes with the Priest.

‘We don’t know where it is.’

‘It’s opposite the playing field,’ said Dad, with a glare that discouraged further excuses.

If a recent visit from dear old Granny Lynch – matriarch and devout Catholic – had triggered Dad’s decision then nothing could save us. Not even a pleading look at Mam, a Methodist, who kept her head down and remained silent. Fearful of angering the Almighty and getting a crack round the lughole, we were in church the following Saturday.

Confirmation classes at St Peter’s provided a fast track to a first Holy Communion for local kids at a time when Twydall lacked a Catholic school. I was the oldest sheep in the flock. Next came John Angell, a third year pupil at Twydall Juniors and his brother Paul. Little Colm Crowley, one of three brothers, was the youngest of a dozen kids in the charge of Father Naylon.

An affable Irishman, Father Naylon lead us in prayer, guided us through the commandments and ignored our dismayed faces when he told us we’d be receiving the body and blood of Christ in Holy Communion. Then, at the end of the first lesson he blessed us, smiled cheerily and sent us on our way with a reminder that the booklets he’d given us would cost sixpence each. Having to learn the catechism at home was a choker. Thees, thousand arts we could just about decipher but coveting, wombs and virgins were way beyond us.

At school I sat the eleven plus. Failure was quickly shrugged off. Since the upcoming World Cup had greater importance, a greater pain was having to traipse to catechism classes on Saturday mornings while other kids played football across the road.

A kind word from Father Naylon, for reciting the Apostles Creed was small consolation, though there were some lighter moments. Little Crowley, with his two front teeth missing delighted Father Naylon with squeaky renditions of Walk Tall and Five Hundred Miles. And Arthur Champ impressed everybody with his knowledge, especially when he named ‘extry munction’ as the sacrament nobody else could remember. His sister Maria, a pretty girl with big brown eyes impressed me too, though I didn’t know why.

On a walkabout round the church with Father Naylon, me and Dave noticed our Mike smirking. It seemed Father Naylon suffered from an itchy backside. ‘You watch him,’ whispered Mike. ‘Every time he tells everyone to look at something, he scratches his bum.’

At the next opportunity we were ready.

‘How many stations of the cross are there?’

Sure enough, as the class turned to count the wall mountings of the crucifixion, Father Naylon gave his bum a quick scratch. Biting our lips, my brothers and I spun away from each other, until our stifled amusement became so unbearable that we released a collective snort of laughter.
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‘What the matter? Come on, pay attention,’ said the bemused priest.

Though we got away with it that time, we knew not to push our luck. Of one mind, next time Father Naylon told the class to look at something we meekly complied.

Inevitably, we were conscripted into going to Mass on Sundays too and the three of us came uncomfortably close to getting roped in as altar boys. Though I liked the smell of incense and I fancied having a go at jingling the jangler, I shied away from it. Instead, our Sunday morning routine continued as always, with us doing various jobs around the house under Dad’s watchful eye, until it was time to polish our shoes and set off for Mass.

10:55am: Hair combed, shoes shining, we arrived at St Peter’s. After dipping our fingers in holy bacteria and blessing ourselves we shuffled, glum faced, into a time capsule where an hour lasted twice as long as an hour in the world outside.

Being unfamiliar with the triggers to sit, stand or kneel, we took our lead from the old ladies that liked to demonstrate their devotion in speed and agility. Only sometimes we were caught out. More than once we leapt to our feet as the rest of the congregation knelt, whereupon we hastily dropped to our knees, grinning like idiots.

In his altar boy smock Arthur Champ jingled his jangler as the duty priest* chanted in Latin and prepared the host. ‘Giving it some hocus-pocus,’ was our Mike’s interpretation of this most solemn part of the mass.

(*Father Gleeson the senior priest and Father Naylon switched between St. Peter’s Twydall and St. Thomas’ Rainham on alternate weeks)

Long spells of kneeling was murder on the knees. Those members of the congregation that went for communion had the benefit of stretching their legs but for my brothers and I, there was only one way to ease the pressure on our numb knees. Once one of us stuck his bum out to make contact with the bench behind us, we all did.

A collection was taken as the priest carried out a post-communion cleansing ritual. How we hated collections. Mam usually gave us a few coppers when we set off for Mass, which we split evenly to ensure we each had something for the (usually two) collections. Sometimes though, a lack of small change presented a problem; lobbing a shilling piece into the first collection would leave us financially embarrassed for the second collection. The practical solution was to put the shilling in the basket and help ourselves to tuppence each for the next collection. The Lord understood, but scowls from people around us suggested they did not.

‘Go in peace,’ said the priest when Mass was over, to a suddenly brightened faithful.

Most weeks that was the end of it but on special occasions the announcement of an additional collection at the door sent the basket carriers scurrying to cover the escape routes. In the midst of the shuffling exodus my brothers and I – without a penny between us –could only slink by with our heads bowed in shame.

Late spring: the catechism class of 1966, nearing a first Holy Communion, were learning about sin and confession. Mortal sin covered the serious stuff. The lesser stuff, called venial sin, covered things like stealing a biscuit from the larder. My guilt ridden conscience was cluttered with such things – so badly that when Father Naylon likened a sin free soul to a clean sheet of blotting paper, I imagined mine spattered with ink.

‘What is a sin?’ asked Father Naylon, of boys and girls keen to offer suggestions.

As hands shot up in the air and answers came thick and fast, Father Naylon was generous in his praise ‘Good man, Paul Angell! Well done, Yvonne Finucane! Good man yourself, Rory Crowley!’

Then Father Naylon led us to the confession box to give us a run down on the procedure. An act of contrition and some penance I could handle, but when he said it was sinful to deliberately withhold something, he seemed to be reading my thoughts.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be hearing confessions from you all before your confirmation,’ he said.

With no way out, I vowed to banish all thoughts of bare ladies and suchlike from my mind before then.

Willing away awkward sins is impossible, I learned, when my first confession came. But I brassed it out and when the ordeal was over my penance was sincere and I was elated to have my shameful soul restored to purity.

11^th June 1966: my brothers and I, along with the rest of the class and other kids from the Rainham area received our first Holy Communion at St. Thomas of Canterbury Catholic Church in Rainham. Being the tallest, Dave and me led a procession that stepped down to the little ones at the rear.

At a post Mass celebration feast in the church hall my brothers and I ate heartily, though the food almost stuck in our throats when John Angell said something about it being a reward for fasting.

‘What’s fasting?’ we asked.

‘Not eating anything today… until now.’

Silky tassels attached to the sleeves of their blazers gave the Angell boys a greater holiness. It also seemed they were better informed.

‘You have fasted today, haven’t you?’ John asked, clearly suspicious.

Our shamed faces betrayed the truth. After a few murmurings and a collective wish for the Lord to overlook our Weetabix lined stomachs, we tucked in again.

End: Providing I could slip out of the house before Dad collared me, Saturday mornings were free once more to play football. And on Sundays, my brothers and I did what good Catholic boys do… we dodged Mass whenever we could.

Ironically, before that summer was out, I had the pleasure of playing in trenches dug for the foundations of a new building on Romany Road… a Catholic school.

And England won the World Cup, just as I expected. Amen.